


Awake

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Fear, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief "cut scene" from The Hounds of Baskerville, in which Sherlock's fear gets the better of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

John had the duvet up over his head, trying to rid himself of the headache one suffers from when one’s ears get too cold. It was not his style to hide under a duvet when things were not going well, but he’d had just about enough weirdness for one day. Despite the late hour, he didn’t feel tired, but he knew if he could just concentrate on breathing deeply for a bit, the adrenalin would wear off and sleep could overtake him at last. 

He was nowhere near attaining this unconscious state when Sherlock burst into the room; from beneath the duvet John could hear him, could discern that he was lurching about the room, breathing raggedly through his nose, just as he’d been doing when they were sat by the fireplace downstairs. For about forty-five seconds, he seemed to be having a physical struggle with something. 

John was tired of Sherlock’s antics, and remained still and quiet, pretending to be asleep rather than offering any assistance. He did not twitch when it sounded like Sherlock had just knocked over the lamp on the bedside table. It became more difficult to feign sleep, however, when Sherlock got under the blankets with him, and it suddenly became clear to John what Sherlock had been struggling with earlier: removing his clothes. All of them. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “Wake up.” 

“I am awake, you clot,” John snapped. “Who wouldn’t be awake after someone comes crashing into the room, upsets the furniture, and pokes him with their willy?” 

“I’m still frightened, and I still don’t understand why, but now it’s making me feel something else as well.” Sherlock was breathing the words right onto the back of John’s neck. 

“Get out of my bed. You’ve got your own.” 

“John, I want to make love. How would we do that?” 

With some difficulty, John turned over in the narrow bed. Where his t-shirt rode up, he could feel Sherlock’s hot, damp skin, and it made his breath catch. “Just for the record: when we were downstairs, I didn’t think you’d gone mad, but _now_ I do.” 

“Is there kissing first? I don’t know how it’s done. You’ll have to show me.” 

Having Sherlock under the duvet with him was like being in bed with a furnace. John pushed it down to his shoulders. From behind the other bed, the knocked-over lamp still illuminated the room somewhat. John could see Sherlock’s quivering mouth and wide eyes well enough. 

“It is clear to me that I want to make love because I’m afraid. It’s just a fear response. Please, John.” Sherlock was putting his hands on John like he didn’t know where they were supposed to go. 

“First of all, you can stop saying ‘make love.’ It’s making me feel…strange. Here, this is how we can do it.” John pulled his t-shirt up and his underwear down, so that he and Sherlock could press their bare flesh together from belly to thighs. He reached down and gathered up their pricks -- Sherlock's stiff and jutting out, his own just beginning to express interest -- and held them, pressed against each other, too much for his fingers to wrap around. “You’ve got bigger hands, you do it,” he instructed. Sherlock’s grip encircled John’s, and John pulled his hand away. 

“Now what?” 

“Now you do this, I suppose.” John thrust once into Sherlock’s fist. His fraenulum rubbed along Sherlock’s length as the glans came into view, pushing through the circle of Sherlock’s finger and thumb. When John flung the duvet back even further, he could look down to see the way their foreskins gathered up around the heads and then slipped back with each stroke. It was awkward and furtive and very exciting. His prick didn’t seem to mind the close quarters and humid conditions at all. 

He put his hand on Sherlock’s hip for a bit, gripping it lightly with each thrust, to soothe and encourage him. Once Sherlock had the thing sussed, John moved his hand down to reach beneath and cup their balls. He could barely touch all four at once, juggling three and managing to caress the fourth with two fingers. 

The thrill of those first few strokes, their sweet novelty, soon leveled off, and John had to work harder to feel the same pleasure. Sherlock was gritting his teeth as well. This had gone on long enough, and John was ready to get out of the plateau phase. 

He hoped Sherlock would say a few more words about his fear and his seemingly odd but perfectly typical emotional response; not only so that he could hear Sherlock’s voice thick with arousal, but because he found something about Sherlock’s fear exciting, though he could not articulate it. He tried thinking about other places he could put his cock besides Sherlock’s fist, and that helped a bit, but did not bring the situation to a conclusion. 

Suddenly, motivated seemingly by confusion and panic, Sherlock put his mouth over John’s and pushed his tongue inside. The shock of it caused John to ejaculate at last. After he was finished, he continued to feel hot pulses of come hitting his belly, and concluded that it was Sherlock going. He put his arm around Sherlock until the stifled cries and little shudders subsided. All went quiet; it was the calmest Sherlock had been in days. John smiled to himself at this thought, and said softly, “How do you feel now?” 

Sherlock thought for a moment, then replied, “Like I’ve sweated out a fever. Relieved…but damp.” 

John sat up just enough to remove his t-shirt, which he used to mop up the mess they’d made. Then he wriggled back under the covers and cradled Sherlock some more in his arms. He was almost too stiflingly hot to hold. 


End file.
